


Ritual

by moonstone1520



Series: One Little Word [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7910683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstone1520/pseuds/moonstone1520
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ritual was simple, but it reassured Sherlock in so many ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ritual

**Author's Note:**

> You can also view it on Tumblr [here](http://moonstone1520.tumblr.com/post/149683267503/one-little-word-ritual)

Ritual

The ritual was simple, but it reassured Sherlock in so many ways.

It began right after The Fall (capitalized—it always was in his head after he returned and saw the effect his absence left on his friends). He returned to Molly’s flat shortly after her shift at Bart’s had ended. He had threatened and berated Mycroft into allowing him to attend to one last errand before he flew off to parts unknown.

He climbed the stairs to her residence, aware that he still needed to clean the blood off his hair and face, but not caring at this moment. No, his only immediate care right now was making sure the woman who helped kill him was alright. Arriving in front of her door, he paused a moment and tried to quell the shaking in his hands. Realizing it was a futile effort, he raised his arm and gently knocked on her door.

He heard sniffling and shifting in the room beyond, and his chest clenched for reasons he chose to ignore. His trembling increased as the events of the day caught up with him and the door swung open. Molly stood there, her eyes wide, her hair loose around her face. The Bowie tee and shorts she wore served to enhance her slight figure—not that Sherlock was noticing, of course not, especially not at a time like this—and her face was splotched with tears. Her breath caught at the sight of him—he knew he must look an absolute mess.

She smiled crookedly up at him, and reached up to caress his cheek. He caught her hand and held it there, closing his eyes at the last friendly contact he might know for a great while. He sensed her moving closer to him and his trembling increased. Tears slipped through his shut eyes and streamed down his face.

Blessedly, Molly simply stood there quietly, still.

He moved her hand slightly away from his cheek and firmly kissed her palm. He opened his eyes and met hers.

“Molly,” he said wetly, simply.

Her eyes flashed with an emotion that was too fleeting for him to discern. At the sound of her name, she drew him into her arms and simply held him. He wrapped his arms around her waist and held on for dear life, allowing his feelings, the sentiment he had abhorred for so long, to come crashing down on him; personal experience had shown him that the longer he put off _emotion_ , the worse it would come back to bite him.

So he allowed himself to fall apart in her arms. The only one of his tight circle who knew he was alive ( _Mycroft doesn’t count. Not now. Not here._ ).

The knowledge caused his chest to clench again.

He was grateful for her silence as he fell apart in her arms. She didn’t try to calm or reassure him with words; she simply allowed herself to be the anchor he so desperately needed.

He was unconscious of how long they stood there in her doorway clinging to each other. It could have been minutes or hours for all he knew. He filed away the feeling of her body under his hands, the smell of her perfume, the tickle of her hair against his ear—all for science’s sake, of course. Once he realized he was taking inventory of the little details that made up Molly, he decided he was sufficiently composed enough to be on his way (locking up the minutia he’d collected to be examined and deleted— _or not_ —at his leisure).

He loosened his grip on her waist and placed his hands on her shoulders, gently pushing her away. He smiled sadly down at her.

“Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock said, his words heavy with meaning. He watched her eyes flutter closed as he leaned in and placed a kiss on her cheek.

He left her standing there without another word.

***

This new ritual persisted in exactly the same manner during his brief forays back into London throughout his two year excursion and upon his return.

He visited her for this odd comfort the night he came back for good; after their day of crime solving; after the Watson’s wedding; and the night after she had broken up with Tom. That time, the queer ritual was more for her than for him—or so he told himself, his stomach doing traitorous flips as she cried into his shirt.

This night, however, Sherlock wasn’t sure if he would be welcome. He exhaled, composing himself ( _when the hell have I ever needed to **compose**_ _myself?_ ), and rapped on the door.

It flew open seconds later and Sherlock Holmes was faced with an absolutely furious Molly Hooper.

“What now?” she spat. “Need your stiches fixed? Do you need your bloody little ritualistic bit of comfort from me since you’ve been shot?”

Taken aback by her vehemence, it took Sherlock a bit to reply.

“My stiches were removed earlier today. I’ve absconded from hospital—”

“AGAIN?!” Molly asked, her tone sharp as an ax, her eyes flashing dangerously.

“Yes, again,” he replied with exasperation, “I’ve come to ask—”

“I’m not covering for you, Sherlock—”

“I’m not asking for that—”

“I’m not letting you in.”

“I only want—”

“I don’t want you in here if you’re high again.”

“ _I’m_ _not high_ —”

“Then what do you want?”

“IF YOU WOULD LET ME FINISH A DAMN SENTENCE I WILL BLOODY WELL TELL YOU!” he bellowed. Molly fell silent. She crossed her arms over her chest, raised an eyebrow, and glared at him, waiting for him to continue. Her expression faltered when she saw the blood leave his face as his healing chest wound pained him, but she steeled her resolve.

“I’m… sorry, Molly. For what I said to you in the lab. That day,” he stammered. Molly raised both eyebrows at him in shock. “It was unacceptable and inappropriate and not something that… one friend would say to another.”

Molly waited. When he didn’t speak again, Molly did. “And?”

He started and met her angry eyes. “And… what?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. “Sherlock, I don’t give a damn what you said to me about my engagement. You were high. I do give a damn, though, that you went and put poison in your system for a sodding case when you promised that you were beyond all of that—”

“I never promised, Molly,” he interjected quietly. “I promised I would try to rise above it. I never said I was beyond it.”

Molly bit her lip, the tiny pedestal on which Sherlock stood, in her eyes, having gotten smaller over the years, finally disintegrating. “Thank you for apologizing,” she whispered, moving to close the door. She was stopped by a hand holding it open.

“Molly,” he groaned. “Please.”

She avoided his eyes until he reached through the gap and gently grasped her chin in his hands. “I need you.”

His eyes were desperate, pleading.

She crumbled.

She opened the door and allowed him to step over the threshold and envelope her in his arms. He buried his head into her neck as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, one hand gently toying with the curls at his nape, the wool of his coat rough under her palm. As they have for years, they stood quietly, the atmosphere charged with words unspoken.

He said the words so quietly, she wasn’t sure if she’d heard them at all.

“I’ve never been so scared of dying in my life.” She shuddered, though whether it was from the hot tears falling onto her skin or his words, she wasn’t sure. She clutched him tighter and turned her head to press a gentle kiss onto his cheek.

She never got there.

Instead, he moved his head at the exact same time—possibly to perform the exact same gesture—and her lips met his in a gentle kiss. She felt him pull her body roughly against him before he pulled his head away from her with a smack. His eyes wide, he stared at her, his gaze travelling from her eyes to her mouth multiple times. Molly stood in his embrace, hardly daring to breathe, wanting him to make this decision on his own.

Sherlock swallowed hard as his eyes rested on her lips again. She felt his arms loosening from her waist and her heart cracked…then quickly knitted itself together again as she felt his hand slide across her cheek and slowly pull her face towards his.

He rested his lips on hers—not moving, simply pressing and resting there. Her eyes shuttered closed as he tentatively moved against her mouth. She let him take his time, not wanting to rush him, letting him explore her mouth, and _oh was his mouth so soft_ …

Her eyes flew open as he moved away from her. Molly’s heart lept into her throat for a brief moment, but settled when she realized he was simply removing his bulky Belstaff. _Settling in then, are we?_ she thought, amused despite herself. He hung the expensive garment on the hook next to her door, and swiftly took her in his arms again, his hands cupping her face, hers resting on his wrists.

His kisses were astonishingly gentle. He nipped at her lower lip and smiled against her mouth when she sighed. His tongue asked for entry and he groaned when she granted it, her tongue meeting his in a tangled dance. She hardly noticed when Sherlock began backing her up until her legs hit the arm of her sofa and she tumbled onto the cushions below, dragging the detective with her.

Somehow, their mouths stayed fused together.

His weight on top of her was pleasant and comforting. His hands slid from her face to her collarbone, tracing the dips and curves with his long violinist fingers. She shuddered under his ministrations, his mouth still working magic on hers, his fingers ghosting over her breast and gliding down her ribcage to grab hold of her waist. He ripped his mouth from hers and nipped his way down her neck, licking across her collarbone, taking note of every gasp and squeal that Molly made under his talented tongue.

Her hands ran through his hair, clutching the curls at the nape of his neck, her nails digging into the suit jacket that covered his muscular back. She felt the pads of his fingers dragging across her belly, her muscles reacting violently to his touch.

“Sherlock,” she breathed, a whispered plea behind his name. He reached up and kissed her fiercely, stars exploding behind her eyes at the intensity of his kiss. He pulled her up with him and tugged her jumper up over her breasts, breaking their embrace just long enough to pull it over her head and toss it over the arm of the sofa. She pushed his jacket off his shoulders and began unbuttoning the black dress shirt he wore, her fingers fumbling with the buttons as he kissed his way down her neck and into her cleavage.

He mumbled words into her chest, the vibrations of his voice sending pleasant chills down her spine.

“What?” she breathed, her world spinning at what was now her reality: a very turned on Sherlock Holmes—judging from the pressure between her legs—mouthing her breasts through her filmy bra. He ceased his ministrations and looked up at her, his gaze hooded, his pupils blown back.

“Just rip it open, Molly,” he said, his voice deep with arousal, sending heated tingles to her core. She pushed him off her, climbed onto his lap and tore his shirt open, the buttons skittering over the floor. His eyes darkened further and he wrapped his arms around her waist. “That’s my girl,” he purred, unclasping her bra with a flick of his wrist. He pulled the garment off her as she pushed his ruined shirt off his torso. Her eyes ticked towards the bullet wound under his pectoral, covered in gauze and tape. She brushed her fingers over it, but he caught her hands in his, kissing her to let her know he was okay.

She ground into his lap and he growled into her mouth, his arms flying around her waist and pushing her into his lap even harder. They moved against one another that way, temperatures and arousal climbing higher and higher with every movement. Their breathing became labored as they struggled to simultaneously keep their climaxes at bay and bring them about.

“Molly,” Sherlock gasped, as she attacked his neck, using her lips and teeth to mark him, finding all of the spots that made him press her into his center and drag his fingers down her back. “Oh God, Molly please,” he begged.

Still working on his neck, she deftly undid his belt and trousers. He cursed as she slid her hand into his trousers and wrapped it around his member, nibbling on his ear as she squeezed. He gasped and his eyes rolled heavenwards at the sensations she was eliciting in him. He reached down and stilled her hand, planting a kiss on her neck and murmuring, “No more games,” into her ear. He pushed her back down into the cushions and rucked her flower patterned skirt above her waist. Sliding a finger into her slick folds, he dropped kisses on her cheek as she writhed under him. She was so wet for him, so ready, he pushed in another finger and pressed his thumb to her clit, her gasps and mewls urging him on.

She turned her head to meet his lips in a heated kiss as she bucked her hips against his hand, her tongue dancing with his in time to his fingers.

“Oh God, Sherlock, I need you,” she gasped as his lips wrapped around her nipple. He removed his hand, but continued to torture her with his mouth on her breasts until she couldn’t take not having him inside of her. With a moan, she pulled him up, bit on his lip, and wrapped her legs around his waist. Taking the hint, he reached between them and pulled out his cock, hard and aching with readiness.

“Mmph, condom?” he muttered against her lips.

“Pill,” she retorted, giving his lip one last nip before pulling away. He met her eyes, a question behind them, and with a nod from her, he pushed into her depths with a groan.

She gasped and arched her back against him. He stilled, waiting for her to adjust to his girth, then slowly began to move inside of her. Sherlock began slow, but with encouragement from Molly, quickly sped up until he was pounding her into the cushions. She met each of his thrusts with a snap of her hips, her lips meeting his again in a messy frenzy of kisses. He buried his face into her neck as his thrusts reached a crescendo, dropping hot, wet kisses on her skin, Molly’s gasps and moans with his movements sounding like music to his ears.

Suddenly, her walls clamped down on him and she screamed her release, her nails digging into his back. With a final thrust, he let go, his release overwhelming him as he came with a shout. He felt a vague pain, but the pleasure that engulfed him cancelled out anything else in his mind. He was hyper aware of Molly beneath him, her slowing breathing, her scent, her sweat covered body, how she felt around him, her fingers running through his hair and brushing over his scalp.

Slowly, as he came back to himself, Sherlock pressed kisses on Molly’s neck and jaw. She sighed, happy and sated, into his ear, and she squealed when he pulled her up into his lap—somehow, keeping them fused together—and gently kissed her mouth. His tongue danced lazily with hers, her legs still wrapped around his waist. She rested her forehead against his, her eyes still closed, and smiled softly.

“Well. That was… unexpected.”

He chuckled, the sound reverberating against her chest. “Indeed.” Sherlock moved against her, dropping lazy kisses over her face, neck and collarbone. He grunted suddenly, and Molly’s eyes drifted open. Her gaze landed on the gauze taped to his chest, which was red and spreading.

“Sherlock,” she whispered throatily. “Your bullet wound.”

Dropping a last kiss on her sternum, he looked down at himself.

“You should go back to the hospital,” Molly murmured, her fingers drifting over the bandage. He leaned against her, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Molly? May I stay? With you tonight? Please?” She stilled against him. Sherlock waited, hyper aware that things had drastically changed between them, and feeling that their relationship and where it was headed hinged on her answer.

After what felt like forever, Sherlock felt her move against him. Her lips landed on his in a tender, burning kiss.

“Yes,” she murmured against his lips. She kissed him again, a kiss that was full of promise. Gently, Molly extracted herself from his lap and pulled him to his feet. She stood in front of Sherlock, her hand cupping his cheek. He pulled it away slightly, pressed a kiss to her palm and allowed her to lead him to the bathroom. 

 

She'd make it better for him.

She always made it better for him.


End file.
